Into the Silence

It was a humid morn; sprouts of sweaty broth slicked about the back of James’s neck as he dropped from his horse, clutching the mare’s main as he did. “Abominable critters,” He grunted, swatting at the patches of mosquitoes swarming about his head. That was one thing he absolutely detested about the further down South he traveled—a surplus of ravenous bugs, gnawing at his flesh and prying into the bracken slop the humidity had made of his clothes. Regardless, Pennsylvania Mountains were the least of his worries, considering the ground that he’d covered over the last several months. He’d take muggy hillsides, overrun with pesky, ravenous critters over murky streams and torrential down pours any day. Wary and worn, James eyed the fern beside him and rested his reins on the branch, eyes glistening from the fortnight’s travels. He turned abruptly and kicked off his mud-plastered boots, proceeding to swirl his toes through the warm grass, seething for the freedom within its evergreen depts. His amber eyes caught the edge of the hillside, grandiose in it’s green livery and sun kissed flourish. He found himself lured to the edge, head poised to devour the scenery before him. Removing his binoculars from his waist, James peered into the distance, capturing the hurried movements behind rebel lines. A dreadful lump caught in his throat, and his quotes quickly reverted to the dreaded day in which lay ahead of him. Everyone knew Gettysburg was a hopeless campaign: the land wasn’t right, the provisions weren’t enough, the companies ragged and worn. The Union had been riden mercilessly and lacked both the gusto and the strength to pull forth—no one needed Lincoln to write them a letter clarifying that—and it was difficult to ignore the seemingly inevitable tragedy that was to occur before their own eyes. How one could consent to such slaughter and label it as a victory? James shook his head in disbelief and lowered the looking glass, tucked it within the leather confines of his belt. The sun bore down to caress his shoulder as he stood, it’s rays cultivating the itching sunburn under his collar; it crawled and seethed, matching the ferocity of his thoughts and the meaningless trepidation in regards to his future His life didn’t have a point anymore: he was a drone, a puppet, a toy soldier to be used and bartered, when opportune struck. When someone told him to run, he ran; when someone instructed him to duck, he ducked; and when someone ordered him to defend, he forged his blood through the confinements of his bayonet. Despite the past years’ efforts—here he stood—gazing over the rim of Little Round Top, biting down the toxic anxiousness in which stirred his laurels from the moment he’d arrived. The preparations on the opposing borders were strengthening and gunfire sounded listlessly in the distance. James grinned, the action contorting his youthful face. Cannon fire was an ungodly conception, brewed from the ignorance of humanity and molded into the justification of “protection”. As if there was anything to protect—a hunk of countryside? Was that it? War was just a game you played when you were kids; no one told you what the true price for a gun, for a life.

An audible boom resounded in the distance, resembling a rumble as mighty as a thundering herd of bison galloping across a Nebraskan plane; although, instead of leaving a stir of dust and rubble in their stead, it left an immeasurable pile of human flesh. James stomach lurched at the notion, his mind reeling at the causalities. A galloping neared, knocking him out of his reverie and sending him clutching at the revolver at his waist. Turning on his heel with swiftness he didn’t quite feel, he cocked the weapon, just to lower it at the recognition of a familiar face.

“You didn’t forget that we were meetin’ here, did ya?” The man grinned, smacking his teeth in amusement.

“As if you would let me.” James countered, striding over to the horse and tossing his canteen to his saddle eaten counterpart, dreading the implications behind the man’s arrival.

“Ah, lighten up Jamie, you know how it goes: take a little here, give a little there.” Teddy swept back his frayed, light hair and downed the beverage, attending to his stallion. “If we’re lucky, we’ll git a little action ourselves, no?” He chuckled, a deep, throaty omission that sent a foreboding chill down James’s spine.

Lowering to a crouch, James’s mind etched back the hand of time and constructed a veil of memory, a tear weaseling into the corner of his eyes. While his heart sought for home; his adrenaline craved for battle—the fever lay in the twitching of his fingers, the twiddling of his toes, and rapture in the hallows of his belly. With this urge he would come to realize: nothing could remedy the damage of which the plague of war had swept across his country—no one, not creature, no being—not even God himself could deter the ravishing that this war had left on his homestead, his love. “Jamie, hey, Jamie? Ya there?” Ted’s voice echoed, snapping James out of his reverie with a definitive elastic slap.

“Time to ‘round ‘em up. Colonel is awaitin’ over that ridge, there.” He gestured to the acres of falling bodies and yells of turmoil.

“Right.” Was James’s blunt, bottomed reply as he flexed his knees and surged upwards, adjusting his hat firmly on his head before methodically sliding on his boots and glancing somberly down the looming incline. This was it, he knew; alas, he would pay a final restitution for the hands he’d folded and the punches he’d delivered. Another bout of screaming echoed by and his nerves coiled at the terror within the sound. Adjusting his hat once more, James boarded his horse and nodded to his friend whom fought at the film of moisture in which glistened across his forehead.

“This day is a hellfire; destined to consume us all.” Teddy grunted indignantly and whacked his reins against the horse, taking off in a blur of navy and gold.

James sighed against the numbness in his chest and lifted his hopes to the crystalline sky above, lightly spurring his horse into action. He patted the mare’s side adoringly. Then he slowly bent over to whisper in her ear: “Well girl, looks like we’ve only got a one way ticket out of here.” With a raspy holler, he rocketed into the distance, tunneling a trench of devotion in his stead. After all, once the dawn would approach and announce his demise, there would be no applause—just the simplistic grieving of silence.